Hunted
by Angeltree16
Summary: The apocalypse didn't destroy the world. It did so much worse. Six-hundred and sixty six years later, Lucifer rules Creation and hosts the annual Hunter Games. Sam and Dean grew up with the Games. They know no one ever really wins.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

 _"_ _Ten."_

The light

 _"_ _Nine."_

The trees

 _"_ _Eight."_

The others.

 _"_ _Seven."_

He knows them.

 _"_ _Six."_

They know him.

 _"_ _Five."_

Green eyes.

 _"_ _Four."_

Blue eyes.

 _"_ _Three."_

Black eyes.

 _"_ _Two."_

Yellow Eyes.

 _"_ _One."_

Run.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

Sam groaned as he opened his eyes, feeling the last remnants of whatever peaceful dream he'd had slipping away. He yawned, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He could hear Dean shuffling around next door. On normal days, Dean would complain about mornings. On normal days, Dean would smirk and make some half-assed joke, ruffling his little brother's hair. On normal days, they would crawl out under the fence and go hunting with Dad.

They'd hunt normal things, but it was always better when they caught something…special. Sure, wendigo meat was gamey. Shifter was slimy. Werewolf tasted absolutely nothing like chicken. But it was special. Different. No one else hunted the monsters. Not even the Harvells who sold deer meat down at the Hob. No one else dared. Not only was it dangerous, but it was forbidden. The creatures of night were the rabid cousins of the creatures of Hell. The greater demons.

Sam liked to think they lived in a festering pit of plagued, tortured souls, miserable and alone. They didn't. Hell, or the Capital as its inhabitants called it, was a shining city of bright lights and dark beasts. Wealth and power reigned over the twelve districts of Creation. The thirteenth district, Heaven, was destroyed in the Apocalypse nearly seven-hundred years ago when Lucifer rose to power. The surviving Angels fled into the other, earthly districts, powerless and fearful. When the Men of Letters rose up against Hell, the Angels hid. The rebellion failed.

On normal days, Sam and Dean would joke and smile for another day, mimicking the demons of Hell. Mocking them. For if they didn't laugh, they'd fear them. Fear of 'those black-eyed bastards' was something the Winchesters would not tolerate. Ever. And so they laughed.

They'd laugh on normal days, and they'd hunt. Dad and Dean would keep scruff on their faces. They'd go to the Hob; maybe buy a pie from Jo Harvell who'd smile at Dean and blush. They'd go home. They'd miss their mother, but their broken family would be together.

Today was not a normal day.

Today was the day of the Reaping.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two

Dean hated this day. He'd always hated it, but he hadn't feared it. He'd never feared it. Not when he was four years old and his twenty-year-old mother was reaped. Not when he saw another tribute with glowing eyes burn her alive. Not when he turned eleven and would be eligible to be led to slaughterer until he was twenty-one. He'd never feared it…until Sammy came of age.

He knew he'd volunteer for his brother in a heartbeat. Knew he'd fight tooth and nail to return to him. Knew he'd fight the devil himself to protect Sam. But that could only last so long. As soon as Dean turned twenty-two, he would be powerless. His brother would be at the mercy of Crowley McClaude, District 12's unwilling representative from Hell. Dean feared watching his brother die more than anything in the world; even his own death.

Dean shook himself from these thoughts. He still had another two years in the drawing. He smirked, thinking it odd how comforted he was by this fact where others would be terrified.

Sammy wouldn't be called. He hadn't taken any tesserae. Dean wouldn't let him put his name in that bowl any more times. Of course, that hadn't stopped Dean from doing the same…not that Sammy knew. With any luck he'd never have to know.

The Winchesters had terrible luck.

Dean put on a stiff monkey suit. It was old, tattered, riddled with holes. It had belonged to Dean's grandfather, Henry, before he had gone missing. It was one of the few nice things Dean had, other than the pendant he wore around his neck. Sammy had given it to him the first year Dean had been in the drawing. Dad had been scared, drinking more than usual. Sam didn't really understand yet, but he was scared too. He'd saved up his pocket change for the trinket.

 _"_ _For luck,"_ he'd said when he gave it to Dean.

Dean closed his eyes as he wrapped his hand around the little charm, smiling at the memory. He took a deep breath and left his room, meeting his family in their small kitchen.

When he caught sight of Sammy, he couldn't help it. He laughed. It was an old outfit of Dad's. The pants were too short, the coat too long at the arms and too loose around Sam's wiry frame. Sam glared at him, blowing long hair out of his eyes and standing from a wooden chair. He was fifteen and already a good four inches taller than his big brother. Sam crossed his arms, waiting for his stupid big brother to 'knock it off already!' Dean subsided into chuckles and sank into the chair Sam had vacated. Sam's eyes narrowed and he tackled Dean. They tussled on the floor for a few moments before Dean caught him in a head lock and noogied him as Sam tried to swat him away.

"Oy!"

John Winchester stood and pulled the boys apart.

"You're going to tear something."

Dean looked up at their father.

"Like a muscle?"

"Like your shirt. You've got plenty of muscles that we can fix, but we've only got a few proper clothes. The last thing we need is you two being dragged off by Crowley's frickin' entourage!"

John sighed bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Ever since he had lost Mary, the Games had been a living nightmare for him. He wanted nothing more than to kill that yellow-eyed bastard that had killed his darling girl; but he couldn't. That lesser demon was off living the good life of a victor somewhere in District one. His boys were all he had left. He was hard on them, but he only wanted them to be prepared. To survive. And if the worst should happen…to come home.

Hot tears welled in John's eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He had to be strong for his boys…and for Mary. When she left, he promised her that he would protect them, always and forever, as best he could. She'd never been so proud of her boys. All of her boys.

John dashed his tears away and fixed his sons with a stern, yet fond look, as they stared at their shoes. He felt his lips quirk up as he gently slapped them upside the head.

"Ow!"

"Dad!"

He chuckled in earnest now. He hadn't laughed on this day in fifteen years.

He grasped his sons by the scruffs of their necks and steered them out the door into the drizzly autumn day to face the reaping.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Three

The town square was packed when the Winchesters arrived. John gave them both meaningful looks and short nods before disappearing into the throng of adults. Sam glowered at his brother as Dean maneuvered him with a hand on the back of his neck through the crowd in order to register. Sam and Dean barely winced as the small needle pierced the soft flesh of the pads of their fingers. The resident demon was efficient in her job as she smeared the blood sample onto a small disc that recorded their information. It was done. They were in the system.

Sam faced his brother, letting out a shuddering breath as he wrapped his arms around him.

"Hey," Dean murmured into Sam's too-long hair. "No chick-flick moments."

"You love chick-flicks, Dean." Sam hugged his brother tighter.

"Yeah yeah, ya sappy moose." Dean started stroking Sammy's hair. "It'll be alright. We'll be fine."

"No Dean. I know about the tesserae. I know your name's in there more than nine times."

"Sammy—"

"How many? How many times Dean?"

"Forty-Seven."

"God, Dean, how could you be so stupid?!"

"I didn't have a choice, Sammy."

"It's Sam!"

Sam got defensive when he was hurt. Dean knew this, but he still drew back a little.

He looked up at Sam and smiled, remembering when that gangly boy was a baby that fit in the crook of his arm. A chubby toddler who lost his thin little sock as he took his first steps towards Dean. A kid who stumbled after his big brother in the forest as he taught him the ins and outs of a shotgun.

"You'll always be Sammy to me." He caught him in a tight embrace as his brother let out a quiet sob against his shoulder.

The low, echoing sound of a horn reverberated throughout the square, signaling the beginning of the Reaping. Dean gave his brother's hand a tight squeeze before slipping into the crowd to join the other nineteen-year-olds, calling out above the voices of murmuring teens, "For luck!"

Sam looked down to see that Dean had left his pendant in his hand. He smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Four

Tension hung in the air as a deathly silence overtook the crowd and Crowley McClaude mounted the stage.

He looked fairly normal for a demon of Hell. Short hair, short beard, short legs. If not for his long coat of rich furs and satin, one could easily mistake him for one of the lesser demons; Lucifer's dogs who lived on the outskirts of Hell. They're still rich, still above everyone, but still eligible for the Games. The only difference was, those crazy bastards wanted to 'play the Game' and they almost always won.

Dean sighed at the thought of another year of the scum of Lower Hell killing innocent kids. Reluctantly, he brought his gaze up to the screen at the foreground of the stage. Graphic scenes of the apocalypse began to play, a deep voice from the Pit itself narrating. The eleven- year-olds watching the mandatory programming looked scared. So scared. _'They shouldn't be here,'_ Dean thought. As the screen faded to black, Crowley stepped forward, tapping the microphone that stood next to a single glass bowl.

"Welcome District Twelve, to the 666th annual Hunter Games."

He spoke in clipped tones, hands behind his back. He hated his job.

"The _lucky_ tributes of this year's Games will be given the chance to bring great honor and glory to themselves and their District. For hundreds of years, this proud tradition has…"

This was bullshit and everyone knew it. Dean knew it. Crowley knew it. Even 'Ol Pam, the blind woman down the street knew it.

Dean tuned out the usual crap and focused on the people he loved. Sammy stood a few rows ahead of him, a head taller than any of the other kids. He was twiddling his thumbs, a nervous habit he had picked up when he was little. Dean never told him, but Mom used to do it too. She was twiddling like crazy the day of her Reaping.

Jo stood off to the side with the sixteen year olds, tugging at an ill-fitting lacy dress; the tattered ribbon in her hair coming undone. It was almost funny how uncomfortable she looked. Jo was a hunter. Always had been. Always would be. Not the type for froufrou Capital crap.

John was somewhere behind them, drinking from a flask and thinking of 101 ways to kill Crowley and the rest of demon-kind.

These thoughts were almost enough to make Dean smile, until he caught something in Crowley's speech. His tone was monotonous, his eyes dull. Typical Crowley. But something had changed. There was a hitch in his voice. Whether it was some inkling of horror, or fear, or some sort of detached excitement, Dean didn't know. He'd never know.

"As you are aware, the Games classically involve one boy and one girl be chosen at random to participate, the only exception being the rules of the Quarter Quell. These rules have stood for hundreds of years; consistent, trustworthy,…dull. Lord Lucifer fears that the true spirit of the Games has been lost, and has therefore issued new…guidelines."

Dean's eyes narrowed. " _What the hell?"_

"For this year's Games, he would make you aware of his sole, true power, and reiterate that your service lies only with him. No bond may be stronger than this. Therefore, this year's Games shall pit your servitude against the bonds of blood."

 _"_ _Say what now?"_

"Two members of the same family from each District shall enter the Arena, twenty-four tributes in total. There can be only one Victor."

Crowley turned his head away from the crowd. During his entire speech, he made eye contact with no one. He turned to the bowl and plunged his hand in. From the look on his face, it might have well been filled with holy-water. Crowley was up to his armpit in the glass globe, plucking a name from the very bottom.

Dean's breath caught in his throat as the demon unfolded the slip of paper. He now cursed the the extra food he had bought with his name, now knowing it would spell death for his brother.

 _"_ _No, no, please no."_

A few yards away, Sam was having similar thoughts, his eyes squeezed shut as he chewed his lip and fiddled with a string on his jacket.

 _"_ _Not us."_

Crowley tapped the microphone once more and read out the names that made Sam and Dean's blood run cold.

"Thomas and Josephine Harvell."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Five

 _"_ _No no no, not Jo and Tommy. Anyone but them."_

Sam and Dean glanced at each other, twin expressions of horror overtaking their features. They'd known Jo since they were kids. She understood them better than anyone. She'd lost her father to the Games when she was five years old, not two months after Tommy was born. They had bonded over the shared grief of what might have been and as the years passed, they'd grown close.

Dean never told her, but she'd always reminded him of Mary. Jo-Jo had always been loving and witty, and she was a hell of a hunter. It had started out as Dean protecting her when he couldn't protect his mother, but over time he saw Jo as herself, and protected her all the more fiercely as the sister he never had. Of course, if Jo knew this, she'd tear him a new one. She'd always believed she could look after herself, that she was strong enough to handle the world on her own.

She was strong now as she walked forward with a stiff upper lip, the bow in her hair coming completely undone and fluttering to the ground. She lead her trembling little brother by the hand as they made their way through a silent crowd to the stage. It wasn't right. Jo was so brave, so full of life and hope. She wasn't the empty shell of a girl they saw now, her breath coming in short gasps and her hands shaking almost imperceptibly.

And Tommy, tiny, underweight, eleven-year old Tommy…he wouldn't last five minutes. He'd never been beyond the fence. Never touched a weapon in his life. And Jo loved her brother so much, as soon as he died, she'd just give up. They were as good as dead. They couldn't, they just couldn't.

"I volunteer!"

Sam and Dean to one another, surprise sparking in their eyes as they spoke in unison; before morphing into understanding.

 _"_ _Of course. They were both self-sacrificial idiots who had a habit of jumping in feet first. Damn the consequences. They could work it out later. This was for Jo, and Tommy, and Ellen, who had lost too much to the Games already."_

The crowd murmured in shock. No one ever volunteered. To be chosen was a death sentence, but volunteering was suicide. It was insanity.

Over the noise, two distinct voices could be heard, saying nothing and everything at once. Ellen Harvell let out a sob of simultaneous horror and relief. John Winchester choked out a cry of anger, grief, and pride as he watched what was left of his family mount the stage and glare defiantly, not only at Crowley, but at Death himself; daring him to claim them.

Crowley, for once in his long, long life, was speechless. The two boys before him were clearly related. Their eyes held the same gleam, their mouths the same quirk, and they stood as if trying to protect one another from the world. They fulfilled the requirements, but Crowley hadn't a clue as to _why_. Even he knew this was madness.

He let out a rather inhuman sound of confusion before collecting himself.

"A-and you would be?"

"Sam Winchester."

"Dean."

Neither held out a hand to shake his as was customary.

Crowley cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Ahem, well, may I present this year's tributes, Samuel and Dean Whenchister."

No one clapped.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Sam and Dean dismounted the stage without being told, and let themselves be escorted away, hundreds of eyes following them.

Dean glanced sideways at his brother and frowned. He understood what they had done and why, but as the adrenaline faded away he decided he didn't have to like it. He and Sam had to talk.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Six

The room was ridiculous. Dean felt strange just sitting there. It was just so…soft. Plushy. Its bright colors contrasted so much with the world of District 12, just a few feet away. It was almost laughable.

Sam and Dean sat in awkward silence in an awkward room.

"Why?"

It was so quiet, Sam almost didn't hear it.

"What?"

"Why'd you volunteer?"

"You volunteered too!"

"I know but…I mean, I get that it was Jo, but what about me and Dad? You know how he was after Mom died. I knew that I was being stupid. But you…you're the smart one, always have been. So what were you thinking?"

Sam sighed.

"I couldn't just let them die. I mean, Mom died. Our friends have died. I guess this was just the last straw. I figured, if I went up there, I could at least save someone. Have some kind of control in our lives. Do some good. Of course I remembered the rule, but I figured someone else might volunteer too. This sacrifice thing is a kinda family trait you know."

"So you knew I'd sign up." It wasn't a question.

"I was hoping you wouldn't actually."

"So what, you wanted to drag poor Adam to Hell with you?"

"It was a very rudimentary plan Dean!"

They chuckled a little before falling into silence. Before fear for each other set in.

A knock sounded at the door and John Winchester stepped inside. He walked over to his boys with quick, heavy steps before wrapping them in a tight hug. They remained that way for a few moments before John pulled away and slapped them both upside the head good-naturedly. No one said anything. There was nothing left to be said.

Too soon, a demon came in to say their time was up. Stealing one last look at their father, they saw forbidden tears dancing in his eyes and felt pangs of guilt. They had done what they knew was right, but they were still leaving him alone.

John smiled down at them. It said so many things.

 _"_ _I'm so proud of you. You can get through this. You're idiots. I love you."_

And then he was gone.

The Harvells entered moments later. Jo stalked right up to them and slapped them both across the face, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

"Why?" Her voice broke as she spoke through clenched teeth.

Dean stepped forward slowly, hands up in a placating gesture.

"Jo-Jo—"

"Don't call me that! You don't get to call me that! Not now! Not when you…You…"

She broke down sobbing. Dean unsteadily wrapped his arms around her, almost fearful of the small girl. She leaned her head on his chest, breathing raggedly. Dean knew of the feelings she harbored for him; and though he didn't return them, not in that way, he wanted to comfort her, and so he leaned down and gently kissed her cheek. She let out a little gasping sob and balled her fists in his shirt before turning away from him to face Sam. She enveloped him in a bone crushing hug and Sam let out an involuntary whimper of pain. She released him with a startled laugh and stood away to regard her surrogate brothers.

Tom stood behind his mother, looking at his shoes. He was ashamed. So ashamed. The boys that his mother had all but adopted were sacrificing themselves for him, and he was glad. He was glad that they would die in his place.

Dean read the thoughts on the boy's face, and knelt down to address the kid.

"Hey, what's with the face. I'm gonna think you've already given up on us."

Tom looked up with a watery smile.

"Just look after your sister and your mom, okay?"

Tommy sniffed. "Okay."

Dean stood and faced Ellen, who looked positively furious, hints of tears in her blazing eyes. She was, if possible, more intimidating than her daughter.

"Morons, the both of you. If your Mama was alive she'd kick your asses. I might just do it for her."

Sam joined his brother, looking at Ellen sympathetically. She'd nearly lost her two babies, and in saving them, lost the boys she'd taken in. The boys she'd promised their mother she'd look after. Guilt swam in her eyes as she took in their every last detail. When she couldn't look anymore, she closed her eyes, anguished, wrapping her arms around them. Hugging her back, Sam ran a soothing hand up and down her back.

Dean, too, closed his eyes, hating to ask, but knowing he must.

"You'll look after him won't you? Dad?"

"Of course," she breathed back. "Always."

And then they were gone.

No one else came.

There was no one left to come.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Seven

 _They were running._

 _They'd been running so long._

 _It seemed they'd been running all their lives._

 _Dean's feet bled and his breath came in warm white puffs as he struggled forward, jacket wrapped round his too thin form._

 _Sam's vision had started to blur as the snow fell faster. The cold burned like acid on his exposed face and hands. He wouldn't be surprised if it was poisoned. He risked a quick glance behind him. The demons of Lower Hell, the Careers, still followed, whooping and screeching like banshees._

 _They were getting closer._

 _He couldn't see their faces, but he could see their eyes._

 _Yellow._

 _Black._

 _Red._

 _Like the dying embers of a fire, Sam saw his death reflected in their eyes._

 _A faceless figure raised a bow._

 _He let an arrow fly._

 _Sam felt pain erupt in his lower back._

 _He collapsed forward, warm blood soaking his thin shirt, ice filling his veins with fear._

 _He was dying._

 _He was dying._

 _He was—_

Dean sat bolt upright, eyes wild and gasping. He put a hand to his chest, his racing heart thudding uncomfortably, almost erratically, against his ribs. He stood shakily and walked towards the bathroom.

Splashing cool water on his face, his breath slowly evened out.

"It was just a dream."

Dean chuckled. He really should've been used to nightmares by now. He'd had them ever since his Mom had died. He'd dream of her, of Sam, Dad, Jo, Ellen; anyone he'd ever met really. It was always the Games. They always died. But this…

…this was different.

This had been vivid. Gruesome. He could still feel the biting wind if he closed his eyes.

Still hear Sammy's pained yell.

Still see his brother dying…

Placing the heels of his palms on the counter, Dean leaned his full weight on it, breathing deeply.

"It wasn't real."

It was a lie. It was all too real. It was a reality that could oh-so-easily be real.

Dean padded across the too clean carpet to sit on the too soft bed on the too smooth train, approaching the Capital all too fast.

Dean heard a soft knock at the door before Sam slid the door open, peering inside.

"Hiya, Sammy."

"Hey, Dean." Sam stepped into the room, twiddling his thumbs. "Um, you okay?"

"Yeah, 'm fine."

"You sure, 'cause I heard you yelling a minute ago."

Dean shrugged.

Sam sighed, sitting on the bed next to his brother.

"More like screaming really. Nightmares?"

Glancing sideways, Sam caught Dean's gaze before the older boy looked away offering a sharp nod.

Sam's eyes softened.

"Me too."

Dean turned his head to look at him and Sam closed his eyes, remembering the terrible dream and swallowing thickly.

"I dreamed I was already in the Games and some tribute was chasing me. Just as I thought I would get away, he appeared right in front of me and started strangling me. It seemed so real. I mean, I really thought I was gonna die. You?"

"…Same."

Sam sighed.

"We're not gonna die like that, Dean. We can get through this."

As they sat in silence, Dean tried not to think of how only one of them could.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Eight

Dean scrunched his eyes against the light filtering through his dirty, cracked bedroom window. He cracked open an eyelid to see Sammy, a mess of gangly limbs beside him. The younger boy, turned on his stomach, clutched at his brother's old flannel with his left hand, the same leg thrown over Dean, anchoring him in place with head tucked beneath Dean's chin. Dean smiled as his little brother let out a snuffling snore and nuzzled against Dean's neck, his fluffed-up hair tickling his cheek. Dean felt his eyes close as he hugged his brother to him.

If they could just stay in this moment forever.

A soft, persistent rapping sounded at the door. Dean huffed at the disruption.

 _"_ _Sammy must've brought a stray dog home again. Great. Now I have to get it out before Dad—"_

The rapping became a pounding.

"Oy! We've a lot to do today and some of us need to eat before dealing with it!"

Dean felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. It had been forming since yesterday. He sat up slowly, detangling himself from Sam. Shooting a swift glare at the closed door and the harsh Scottish voice behind it, he marshaled his features into a soft smile as he shook Sam's shoulder. The little beast mumbled, burrowing under a pillow, and blindly searching for Dean with a slow, swatting hand.

Dean rolled his eyes fondly as he caught the smaller hand and pulled Sam up by the arm until he was sitting. Sam blinked sleepily, rubbing one eye with his fist. It was times like these that reminded Dean just how young Sammy still was. The younger made a face as Crowley assaulted the door again. Dean turned back to the door.

"Alright, we're up! Don't get your pantyhose in a twist!"

He smirked as he heard the demon sulk down the halls, grumbling. Sam giggled behind him.

They joined the irate Scotsman in the dining car minutes later, their Reaping outfits wrinkled and hair mussed. He glared at the butter as they entered.

Dean snagged a warm roll off his plate as they passed. He spoke around a mouthful of the warm, buttery pastry. "Ya coulda started without us."

One would think the butter had done him a great personal wrong given the withering glare Mr. Crowley directed at it. He grit his teeth and ground out his words.

"New policy. We wait for our esteemed tributes to eat with us. It's only polite."

Dean paused in his chewing, and glanced up in mock contemplation.

"So throw us into a pit of monsters and murderers and that's fine, but God forbid you eat a salad outside my presence."

Crowley gave a small huff of agreement. Dean thought he might have seen the corner of his mouth twist up, just a little.

A dull thud followed by a loud, "Balls!" drew their attention to the back of the car as the door opened. A middle-aged man in a gleaming wheelchair maneuvered through the entryway. Despite his grungy appearance, it was obvious the man had money. The faded flannel and vest were clean, his greying hair and beard were neatly trimmed, and the chair was outfitted with all the latest technology. The man grumbled in an accent that reminded Dean of Ellen.

"You'd think with all this fancy Capital shit, they'd find a way to get through a damned door."

Dean liked this guy.

Puffing out a breath, the stranger expertly maneuvered the spoke-less wheels towards the long table. Grasping a mug of coffee and settling back in his chair with a sigh, he turned his attention to the two boys.

"Singer. Bobby Singer." He extended his hand to each of the boys in turn. Sam's eyes widened.

"I know you! You went hunting with Dad when we were little!"

"Sam!" Dean warned eyeing Crowley. If the demon took note of their family's illegal hunting, he didn't comment.

Bobby's eyebrow jerked up. "You're John's kids?"

Sam sat up straighter. "Yeah, Dad told us you were the only victor from our district. He got mad when people said you won by dumb luck and you were just some old drunk."

"Samuel!" Crowley did notice this. Despite his contempt for his job, he still honored the tradition of showing at least some respect to mentors. Bobby, however, just chuckled into his beard.

"Yeah, well I won't say luck had nothin' to do with it. Even then, I got out by the skin a' my teeth, to say nothing 'bout my legs," he said, gesturing to the still limbs. "As for bein' an old drunk, your Daddy an' I can both testify to that one." He raised his mug in a mock toast.

Sam grinned at him toothily. Bobby smiled back, but there was something in his eyes that Dean couldn't place until he met his gaze. The old man's eyes were sad and knowing. He knew the odds as well as Dean. He knew Sam's happy innocence would not last. He knew that he would not bring his old friend's children back to him. Not both of them.

He'd been doing this too long.

They sat in comfortable silence for a time. At some point Crowley had begun talking about proper etiquette in Hell, but the other three didn't pay him the slightest attention. After a while, he gave up. The shadows were shifting across the room when the train was abruptly submerged in darkness.

Dean could hear his brother's breathing pick up in fear. Sammy had never liked the dark. He sought out and gripped his shoulder.

"It's just a tunnel."

He felt Sam nod.

When they emerged into the light, he heard Sam gasp. Dean himself was too transfixed on the sight beyond the train window to glance the other's way. Bobby let out a gruff snort into a beer as Crowley stood to join the boys, who had padded over and had their hands pressed to the glass.

"Welcome to the Capital, gentlemen."

 **AN: I really need to update more.**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Nine

Sam remembered he was nine when Dean and Dad took him on his first hunting trip. They were tracking a rawhead through the old sewer lines with oil lamps and rusted iron pieces, broken off some old car and sharpened to an edge and wrapped in live wires. Sam had gleefully swiped at the air with his own small weapon, significantly duller than the others, as they tracked the creature that, according to Ol' Pam, tasted just like craw-daddies. Sam had never eaten crawfish. When he caught his first glimpse of the rawhead, he didn't think he ever wanted to.

It was emaciated and broken, with greying flesh rotting and peeling away in chunks. Sam felt fear clog his throat as the sunken eyes met his, gleaming with bloodlust. He wanted to cry out for his brother who stood several meters away, not yet seeing their quarry. The rawhead parted its dry lips, exhaling a rattling breath and a feral hiss, bending torn and bloodied knees as it prepared to strike. Sam gasped in a breath of air, stale with the tang of decay, and felt a squeak of fear pass his lips.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dean turn as the monster leapt at him. Sammy squeezed his eyes shut, feet rooted to the moist floor in terror. Just as he was sure he would feel brine encrusted teeth close around his throat, a solid weight slammed into him, knocking him to the moldy floor and landing heavily on his left arm. An audible pop came from his elbow and he whimpered at the fiery pain in the joint.

He looked up, blinking through hot tears as his father drove his pike into the thing's chest, activating the connected taser and frying it from within. John turned back to his youngest son, breathing heavily as he knelt down next to him. Reaching out, he took Sam's arm in gentle, calloused hands, examining his elbow. Sam whimpered and turned his head away from the arm that was bending all the wrong way, and was surprised to find a familiar warmth pressed to his cheek. He hadn't even known Dean had moved before his arm was around Sam's back, supporting him, with his other hand smoothing Sam's hair away from his face soothingly. Sam relaxed slightly, leaning his head on his brother's chest.

He distantly heard his dad speak. "Dislocated. Dean?"

Without a word, Dean withdrew from Sam's side, causing him to whine in protest. He heard fabric ripping and lifted his head to see Dean ripping his flannel, one of the few pieces of clothing he had in semi-decent condition. Sam wanted to argue, but the burning pain in his elbow rendered him speechless.

Dean had begun tying a knot in the long piece of fabric he had created when Sam became vaguely aware of his father moving on his other side. He had barely turned his head before John roughly snapped his elbow back into place. Sam gasped at the cool numb feeling in his arm that lasted only a moment before his vision whitened out and he screamed at the blinding pain. Sam bit his lip, panting and blinking spots out of his eyes as he shuddered, meeting the pained eyes of his father and brother. Dean stepped forward, gingerly maneuvering Sam's arm into the makeshift sling and helping him stand. Sam relied heavily on his brother as they hobbled home. They feasted well on rawhead that night.

Until now, Sam had always considered that the worst pain he had ever known. As Maritza ripped away another swath of leg hair, along with at least three layers of skin, he found he thought otherwise.

"Sorry." The small pishtaco woman flinched in sympathy as Sam bit down on his fist to keep from crying out. "The latest trend here has been kinda…hairless."

Sam offered her a tight-lipped smile. "You all do this voluntarily?" He gasped out the last word as another strip was torn away.

Maritza shrugged. "What can I say? Beauty is pain. And for beauty here, well…it's hell."

Sam chuckled through gritted teeth. "Wonder how my brother's doing with this?"

Maritza smiled. "When we were assigned to you two, my brother Alonso and I drew straws to see who got who. He drew the short straw. I just hope your brother doesn't kill him."

Sam's snort was lost in a groan as the last bit of leg fuzz came away on waxy fabric. Maritza sat back, relieved.

"There. Done."

Sam sighed in relief. The past two hours had been agonizing and humiliating. He was pretty sure he had lost the last vestiges of his pride between plucking his eyebrows and waxing his legs. On the bright side, he had never smelled nicer; like lavender and vanilla.

Maritza took a step back, admiring her handiwork. The well-built fifteen year old looked terribly uncomfortable in his little lilac robe that was almost too small; arms crossed over his red, now completely hairless chest, feet swinging under the metal table he was seated on. Every few moments he tilted his head back and absently blew fluffy brown bangs out of his eyes, previously held back by dirt and grime. He hadn't let her trim them.

She smiled fondly at him. Sam still clung to the impetuous nature of a child in a world in which he'd had to grow up too soon. He reminded her so much of Alonso when he was young. Shaking herself slightly, she reviewed her preliminary checklist, absently swatting Sam's hand as he picked at his manicured nails. At length, she looked up with a smile.

"Time to meet your stylist. You ready?"

Sam swallowed dryly. "No."

Maritza barked out a laugh. "No one ever is. Don't worry. I promise he's more scared of you than you are of him."

Sam stood and she nudged him gently towards an elevator. He reached out for a button, glowing a faint blue before stopping short and turning.

"Maritza? Um..thanks for treating me like a person and not, ya know, Bantha fodder."

Maritza's cheeks glowed a dull teal as she smiled softly. "Despite appearances, we're not all monsters here."

He grinned at her, lopsidedly as he pressed the button. He barely caught her faint "good luck" as the elevator doors closed.

Leaning against the back wall and closing his eyes, Sam took a deep breath. The small, logical part of his brain, that sounded an awful lot like John Winchester, told him it was ridiculous to be nervous. He was meeting someone who would dress him up in some hideous outfit to be paraded around in a chariot with ribbons and sequins and crap. You'd think he'd be more worried about the impending death battle. He really needs to get his priorities straight.

Sam shut that part of his brain up. He had every right to be nervous. His first impression tonight on these rich idiots/sponsors may decide whether he lives or dies. He didn't want to end up like poor Garth Fitzgerald a few years back. The skinny fourteen year old kid had nothing on but strategically placed coal dust. He didn't last an hour in the arena.

Sam's breath quickened and he squeezed his eyes tighter. The polished metal box was beginning to feel like a cage. He shook himself roughly. It was already getting to him. Stupid Lucifer and his stupid Games.

Sam blamed the elevator. He'd never liked small spaces and the music was definitely not helping his sanity. Yes, volunteering was a rash decision. Yes, he was probably going to die because of it. But hearing Asia over the grainy speakers basically calling him an idiot made him want to bash his head on the walls.

 _"_ _It was the heat of the moment!"_

"Shut up!"

Sam jerked his head up at a startled yelp and a thud. He hadn't noticed the elevator doors opening. He blinked at the bright light coming through the wall sized window opposite him. A desk-sized shadow and an oddly shaped lump sat between him and the blinding light. The lump moved, touching something on the desk and the light dimmed. Sam could now make out the shape of a posh leather chair lying on its side and a man sprawled beside it. The man's left leg was thrown in the air and bent over the edge of his desk, his foot pressing a button. He turned his face towards Sam and smiled apologetically before attempting to sit up. Sam watched, frozen in fascination for a moment. It was like watching an overturned turtle trying to save itself. A skinny, pathetic, college-dropout turtle who was cursing in at least five different languages. After eight minutes of watching him fail, Sam moved forward to help, easily pulling the man to his feet.

The man gasped for a few moments. "Thanks. That, uh, wasn't a great first impression, was it?" He chuckled, nervously. Sam gave him a pained smile, embarrassed for the poor guy. He really did look sad in a stained and wrinkled hoodie, a pair of old sweatpants, and worn-out purple slippers that were at least three sizes too big.

Clearing his throat he extended his hand. "Chuck Shirley."

Sam grasped his hand firmly. "Sam Winchester."

Chuck grinned brightly, deep smile lines forming around his eyes. "Well Sam, I must say…you scared the living shit out of me."

Sam laughed, surprising himself. Chuck turned back to his desk, muttering something that sounded to Sam like, "why I got rid of the Sasquatch," as he retrieved a fallen pen. Turning back, Chuck adopted a calculating air.

"So Sam…the Parade of Tributes tonight will demonstrate your worth to all potential sponsors. It's up to me to make sure you don't look like you suck."

Sam's eyes widened. This guy? This guy was his stylist? Chuck seemed like a nice guy but he looked like a District Nine hobo. Chuck raised his arms in self defense, as if reading Sam's mind.

"Now, I know I look like Death's dead tooth right now, but that's only because I like being comfortable when I work. Trust me, I'm great at designing things. I can't rememberer I time when I wasn't creating random crap." He nodded reassuringly, mumbling again. Sam caught the words, "bouncy cat with a pocket," and "century long acid trip." Sam was so confused.

"So," Chuck rubbed his hands together excitedly, seeming to come back to Earth. "Let's get started."

 **AN: "Angie, write the parade."**

 **"** **But I want to get to the blood and murder!"**

 **"** **Angie…no."**

 **Next chapter will be the parade.**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Ten

 _It had been weeks since he'd seen Mama. He missed her. Pop missed her, too. Sometimes Dean saw him cry when he thought no-one could see. He hoped Mama would be back soon. Then Pop wouldn't be sad._

 _It was getting dark and Sammy was already snoozing in Dean's lap when he saw her. She was on the tele…tebaluvision. Dean gasped excitedly and pulled on Papa's sleeve whispering, "Mama, Mama!" He looked up to see his Papa's face and frowned. Why'd he look so scared?_

 _Dean faced the screen again, eagerly. They never showed Mama. She was laying a sleeping bag out in a tree and tying it to a branch with strips of cloth. Dean cocked his head as he squinted at her. She was all covered in dirt and red stuff and she looked mad. Where was Mama?_

 _"_ _Dean, go to your room. And take Sam."_

 _Dean jerked his head up to stare at Pop with wide eyes. He didn't wanna go. He wanted to see Mama._

 _Dean huffed, readjusting Sam in his lap and turned back to Mama. She'd stopped arranging her bag, and she'd gone very tense and very still. She was staring at something off-screen with wide eyes. Dean leaned forward, trying to see past the edge of the screen, to what she saw._

 _"_ _Dean…go now."_

 _Dean's eyes widened as he saw something move near the base of the tree. It was all dark now and Mama wasn't looking at the shadow thing. She was looking the other way._

 _"_ _Mama?" Dean wanted to warn her. He wasn't sure why, but he did._

 _Something shiny gleamed at the base of the tree. Mama still wasn't looking. It wasn't until she heard the shrill whizzing that she turned. The axe buried itself in her abdomen. She shrieked in shock and pain as warm, sticky blood oozed around the wound, staining her shirt black in the night. Tears leaked from her eyes as she fumbled for the axe. She kicked her legs in desperation and fear as her hands slipped away from the handle. The axe had pinned her to the tree._

 _Dean felt hot tears spill down his cheek as his lip trembled. Pop had gone still beside him. Mama had grit her teeth and was glaring down at the shadow thing with pure hatred. She was saying something, yelling at it, but Dean couldn't focus on her words. He saw red. So much red._

 _A dull glow from the base of the tree lit the scene. The shadow thing, a man, stood contemplating the flame of a match. Bright yellow eyes reflected the gleam as he smiled, ignoring the woman above him. As the flame began to gutter, he glanced up at Mary before casually flicking the flame towards the roots of the tree. The bark caught faster than it should've and within seconds flames were licking at Mary's body. She screamed. Papa screamed with her._

 _"_ _Mary!"_

 _The shout woke Sammy and the baby began to cry. Dean quickly turned his brother's face into his shoulder so he couldn't see the screen._

 _Mama kept screaming for a full minute before it went quiet. Then a cannon sounded. Papa fell to his knees, hands fisted in his hair, making gurgling sobs. Dean rocked Sam back and forth until he quieted, eyes locked on the screen, vision consumed with red and gold._

 _—_

"Dean!"

"Wha-What?!"

Dean lifted his head from the table to meet the eyes of his rather cross stylist. Amara (sexy name) was scowling at him like he'd just fed her hellhound chocolate. She stepped up to him rolling her eyes before smudging his cheek with her thumb.

"You're going to ruin your makeup."

"And what a crime that would be."

Amara raised her eyebrow. "Would you like to have to redo it?"

"No, no! S'okay. Got it. No more naps."

Amara smirked. Dean huffed. He never thought he'd long for the games to begin but this…this was torturous. He was wearing black spandex and had glitter in his hair. Silver fucking glitter. If Lucifer had wanted the people to suffer, wanted them to pay, this was it. This afternoon was eternal damnation.

"Alright, come on Dean. Show time."

Dean snorted in annoyance as he stood from the table, feeling spandex stretch in places that were all sorts of wrong.

"I hate this."

Amara grinned.

—

When he first saw Sammy, Dean couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. Sure they were wearing the same outfit, but Sam's hair looked like a disco ball had puked on a shag carpet. Sam crossed his arms defiantly, but a hint of a smile pulled at the corners of his lips.

"Dude, dude yo-you…ahahaha!"

Sam punched his brother lightly, scowling. From a distance, Chuck chuckled softly. Amara gently nudged his arm with her shoulder. They remembered a time when he would trap his little sister in a headlock and plant sloppy kisses on her forehead. Amara would squeal and slap at her brother's chest. She always pretended she hated it. The pair smiled wistfully.

"Alright boys, that's enough," Amara scolded, stepping forward. She grasped both boys by the scruff of their necks, carefully avoiding their hair, and steered them towards the elevator, her smirking brother in tow. The entire ride down to the stables, the little pests kept elbowing each other in the ribs.

Amara groaned as Chuck tried to start a similar battle. She quickly ended it by pushing his face a little too forcefully into the wall. He rubbed at his bruised cheek, pouting and mumbling something about her not knowing her own strength.

When the doors (finally) opened into the stables, Amara took a moment to admire her boys' reactions. Dean blinked a little in surprise before turning to Sam. The younger had a dopey grin splitting his face as he tried to soak in the sights before him. Neither had ever seen a horse before, and here were twenty-four beauties drawn up to elaborate chariots, whinnying and pawing at the dirt.

Amara had to gently nudge them out of the elevator before directing them towards their steeds. Two giant black mares stood, saddled to a plain black wagon. Sam approached the nearest one cautiously, reaching out a tentative hand towards her muzzle. The beast met his hand with a contented huff. Sam giggled in joy as he pet her and she nuzzled his cheek. Dean watched from a distance, smiling softly even as he eyed the horse warily, lest it move to trample his little brother.

In the distance they heard a trumpet fanfare. "Alright," Amara said, clapping her hands together. "You two climb up. There you go, Dean on the right, Sam on the left. I'll get the fire."

"What?!" Dean swiveled his head towards Chuck as his sister brought out a glowing torch.

"Oh, don't worry. It's not real fire, just a simulation. But it'll look great, trust me." Chuck directed an encouraging smile at a very unconvinced Dean. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see Sam staring at him, concerned. Sam didn't remember the day their mother died, but he knew Dean had an aversion to fire ever since.

As the faux flames met the wood of the chariot, engulfing it in a blaze of light, Sam gripped his brother's hand, squeezing it reassuringly. Dean took a deep breath, eyes locked firmly on the road ahead, and squeezed back. He wouldn't show fear. Not in front of these people. Not now. So, he plastered a grin on his face as the chariot jolted forward and they took their place in the line of tributes.

Dean could hear every pulse of his heart, painfully loud in his ears. The sides and floor of the chariot were warm to the touch and glared so bright in the dark room.

 _"_ _Don't think about it. Don't think about it."_

Dean refocused his attention on the chariot in front of him. A young blond woman stood surrounded by pastel colors and the silvery outlines of crops woven into an airy dress, emitting an ethereal light. She held the hand of a small boy, no older than eleven, as he tried to peer over the edge of the chariot, being at least an inch too short. Dean was painfully reminded of Jo and Tommy. This was how they might have looked.

He turned to Sam to see if he'd had the same realization, only to see his baby brother staring, wide eyed at the girl as she tried to help her brother see. In the glow of the fire, a blush was clearly visible on Sam's face. Dean glanced between the two, shaking his head softly.

 _"_ _Oh no."_

He'd heard of the occasional romance between tributes, but it only ever ended in betrayal and heartbreak. And, more often than not, death. That was not happening to his brother. No way.

As the chariots began to move again, he elbowed Sam harshly. When Sam glared he muttered, "lost my balance." Sam directed one more scowl before they were assaulted with cheering, shouting, and bursts of light from all directions. Stunned for only a moment, the Winchesters quickly flashed their most winning smiles and waved emphatically. The crowd roared and swelled as they came around a bend. An imp with a spike through its nose threw a black rose. Sam ducked to avoid the thorns.

As they came to a stop, Dean murmured, "can we stop now." His cheeks were aching with the effort of grinning. His eyes hurt from squinting past the flames. Above them on a balcony, Lucifer began a booming speech. As he always did, Dean tuned out his words in favor of glancing at the other tributes. Four chariots away he spotted a sandy haired man blatantly mimicking the King of Hell, making sweeping gestures and mouthing the words of his speech. Beside him stood a shorter, raven-haired guy with scruff on his chin, eyes closed in exasperation with a hand to his temple. Dean felt himself smiling softly at the pair. As his eyes roamed over the rest of the tributes, his gaze kept drifting back to them. At one point, the shorter one started slapping the other with his too-long sleeve. Dean giggled. Actually giggled. He knew Sam was staring at him weird, but he didn't particularly care. He liked that guy.

As the speech ended and the horses began to withdraw to the stables, Dean tore his gaze away and sighed in relief. At least this small nightmare was nearly over. When their horses drew to a stop near their beaming stylists, Dean practically leapt from the chariot, away from the flames, visibly shuddering. Sam, climbing down, clapped his brother's shoulder.

"You both did wonderfully."

"The waving was a nice touch."

Dean ignored Amara and Chuck in favor of looking over their shoulders, eyes narrowed. Sam turned to him, brows furrowed.

"Dean?"

Dean shook his head, pushing past him to get a better look at the tributes from One, as they spoke in hushed whispers. Something seemed off about them. He couldn't put his finger on it. The boy, a smallish, gangly creature with thin, bleached hair, suddenly stiffened and turned, a crooked grin twisting his face.

Dean gasped, drawing Sam behind him with a firm hand. The boy chuckled, the mirth never reaching his solid, dull, yellow eyes.


End file.
